


Broken Colour

by which_chartreuse



Series: The Colors of Laughter [1]
Category: The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergent from s2 onward, Eventually Resolved Sexual Tension, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Non-Explicit Sex, Revenge, This might get weird, Unrepentant Flirtation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, artist-muse relationship, canon adjacent, does this count as Slow Burn?, former relationships referenced, implied former Midge/Benjamin relationship, lots of characters referenced, references to s2e7, she eats light bulbs and drinks fairy milk, so I guess that makes this, this might be slow burn, vague references to s3e8, why do I keep doing this?, why isn't there more Declan Howell fic?, with appearances from s3 characters/plotlines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22460011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/which_chartreuse/pseuds/which_chartreuse
Summary: "It looks different as it reflects and absorbs electric light. Not quite the same as she remembers it in daylight. But it's still the most beautiful thing she has ever seen."~``~Midge helps Declan Howell get his painting back.
Relationships: Miriam "Midge" Maisel and Declan Howell, Miriam "Midge" Maisel/Declan Howell
Series: The Colors of Laughter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734211
Comments: 60
Kudos: 64





	1. The Start

**Author's Note:**

> Title reference is to a Marconi Union song. They were the soundtrack to this story's writing, if you are interested.

It starts with a note.

Well, no.

It starts with hanging around galleries and known artist bars until she learns that he does, in fact, have the same studio.

Then there's the note.

Mr. Howell –

If you want your painting back, here is the address for Dr. Benjamin Ettenberg.

Please accept my apologies for my part in separating it from you.

Sincerely,

Miriam

She considers including an addendum explaining the bit about eating light bulbs, to be sure he remembers, but figures that's too much. If he remembers, he'll remember. Besides, how many paintings has he ever actually sold?

A few weeks later, upon returning to the city after a run of shows in Chicago, Midge learns via her mother's shrill torrent that Benjamin's townhouse has been robbed. Of only one painting, and several bottles of Scotch.

But Rose is furious that Miriam won't explain what is so funny as she frets. What if Midge had been in the house when it happened?!

Midge wasn't, though. She hasn't lived in that house in some time, even before the Chicago trip, but her mother doesn't know that.

And she just can't stop laughing.


	2. Casual Flirtation

Somewhere between the intro and her halfway mark, there's a slight disturbance in Midge's Gaslight set. It's nothing, really, just a drunk insisting there's something wrong with his coffee a bit too loudly, and Midge loses her train of thought only momentarily before plowing on.

She can hear his laugh slightly apart from all the others, and, for whatever reason, it bolsters her confidence. Her set ends on a surge of applause, and she smiles so hard her cheeks hurt.

“You never said you were a comedienne,” Declan Howell says by way of greeting.

“You never asked,” Midge replies.

“This guy gonna be a problem?” Susie asks as she passes Midge a coffee cup full of gin.

“Probably,” Midge says, pointedly looking the artist up and down. “But I can take him.”

He grins at her, his eyebrows raised in approval.

“Susie Myerson, Declan Howell,” Midge makes the informal introduction, elaborating for her manager, “Mr. Howell is the artist I inadvertently helped rob. You remember. I recently... made it possible for him to get back what was taken.”

“Uh huh,” Susie says. “Sure... Just holler if you need me.”

As Susie leaves to see to other things, Howell slides a bit closer to Midge.

“Am I in your act?” he asks.

“It's not an act,” she replies, borrowing a line from someone she admires, and gives nothing away.

He takes in her expression with a searching curiosity, then leans in conspiratorially.

“They put booze in the coffee here, you know,” he stage whispers, and she snorts with unexpected laughter.

~``~

Agnes Reynolds gets another showing. She still hasn't made it to the front room, but her corner of this gallery is brighter and bigger than the closet Midge first found her in. Midge doesn't think she will ever truly understand the appeal of modern art, but Agnes's colorful women still do it for her.

And she wears the hat.

Agnes is inquiring after said hat when a shadow reeking of turpentine, and other spirits, falls over Midge's shoulder.

“I thought that was you,” it says, and Agnes is blanching before Midge's eyes.

Midge whirls on Howell. “Stop scaring the artists,” she scolds.

“My... apologies.” Howell slurs slightly as he tips his head in Agnes Reynolds's direction. “I've heard lovely things about your work. And your hats.”

Agnes hastily extricates herself from whatever confrontation is brewing between the infamous artist and the uptown chick who might be her only collector.

“That was rude,” Midge says, frowning an exaggerated frown to accentuate her displeasure. But there's something twinkling between them.

“What!” he scoffs. “I said she was lovely!”

“Yeah, those might have been your words, but your tone said something else.” She chides him a little more, but his eyebrows are saying she's right, and his mischievous smile is saying 'I'm still trying to seduce you.'

Which is a familiar look to Midge, but on him it makes her want to laugh rather than shiver.

Howell turns to the women on the walls, appraising them. “Do they still make you smile?” he asks, and Midge remembers what she told him in his studio, however long ago.

She pretends to consider them, but her lips are already curved in happiness. “Yes,” she says. And then, “What are you even doing here?”

“I could ask you the same. I thought you didn't know anything about art.”

“You said no one does.”

“I heard the name Agnes Reynolds and came looking for you,” he says.

“I came because I knew Benjamin wouldn't be here,” she replies.

Howell stares at her, a trace of incredulity in his expression.

“Let me paint you,” he says, and his hand comes up as if he'll touch her cheek. He doesn't.

Midge feels a wave of heat in her face, and a not-really-surprised giggle falls from her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These sections appeared almost magically, very easily. They're a little more light and self-contained than what followed, but they are definitely bringing the bones of the story into alignment.  
> (Also, everything is better if you can hear his voice in your head as you read it. Good god.)  
> Thank you for reading.


	3. A Scheme

Declan Howell's studio is much the same as it was on her first visit. For one, the door stands ajar as if it's simply forgotten its purpose. For another, there's an entire cluster of canvases she's certain have not been moved in all this time.

But up on the table where his assortment of paints and brushes still stand at the ready, sits the painting that used to hang in her bedroom.

Her and Benjamin's bedroom.

She steels herself against the spike of emotion that comes with the sight. _Is this really where she wants to be? Is this a course she wants to pursue?_

She had laughed off the artist's request to paint her as one of his cheeky flirtations, countering with her own coy “Perhaps.” That had made his eyes gleam. But as Midge made her way home that night, a few hours and a few drinks later, a strangely satisfying scheme had come to mind.

With a small shake of the head, she clears her thoughts, returning to the here and now, and turns from the familiar painting.

“Mr. Howell,” she calls, and there's a rustle and thud somewhere above her.

“Mr. Howell?”

There's a groan, pain mixed with a hint of pleasure. “I do love the way you say that,” he's musing as he descends the stairs.

“Mr. Howell,” she repeats again, trying hard not to smile – or maybe grimace – at his overheard comment.

“Miriam,” he replies, and they eye each other a moment. “Did I know you were coming?” He studies her a fraction longer before turning to his paints.

“Oh. No, I'm sorry. I should have sent a note. I would have called, but you don't have a phone...” she quips, suddenly a little flustered. “I just wanted to tell you... 'okay.'”

“Okay?” He squints at her over his shoulder a moment, then turns back to the mixing of two colors Midge has no names for. “'Okay,' what?”

“Okay, you may paint me,” she says, wrestling with the knots in her stomach. “On two conditions.”

His eyes are hers now, paints abandoned. There's an appraising look that is doing something to her, and the way his eyes flicker with recognition tells her that he enjoys watching her react. But he's also considering, weighing thoughts, one against another.

“What conditions?” He steps into her personal space, coming at her almost sideways.

“Whatever you paint, you have to show,” she says, maintaining steady eye contact. “And whatever you paint is mine to buy.”

“A commission?” he asks, eyebrows high. She nods.

She watches another question forming on his face – the why? question – and before he can ask, she answers it.  
  
“Revenge,” she says, with a wry smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was editing and revising while the Sportsball was on today, and I decided to go ahead and post this now instead of waiting til Tuesday. Maybe I will be able to keep up a three-weekly pace.  
> Thank you For reading.


	4. Progress

Midge is away for ten days of touring the west coast. When she returns, she sends word to Howell. His response arrives the same afternoon.

“As soon as possible. Morning best. Need daylight.”

The next morning, Midge stands awkwardly in the midst of Howell's chaos, clutching her purse like a life preserver. She's glad he's accepted her conditions, but now she's beginning to wonder what _she_ has actually agreed to.

“How do you want me?” she asks, and catches the immediate twinkle in his eyes. “How would you like me to pose?” she clarifies before he has a chance to say something lewd.

He smiles his impish smile and motions toward the secret door with a tilt of the head. The Houdini door. He holds the curtain back for her and says, “Undress to your level of comfort, darling,” before retreating into the front room.

The masterpiece stands covered in the same place as before. Even hidden behind a sheet, Midge feels a tiny bit intimidated by its presence. She eyes it wearily, as if Howell were watching her from the blank surface, as she unpins her hat and unbuttons her blouse.

She’s in her camisole and skirt when she calls him back. His expression says 'Is that really all?' while his mouth says “At least the shoes.”  
  
She steps out of her heals and shrinks to eye-level with his bottom lip. Her toes curl against the cold, bare floor.  
  
Howell’s hand skims her naked shoulder before leading her to the chair that sits draped in its own sheet, ready to accept her.  
  
His touch is light as he arranges her. A nudge here, a shift there. It's a bit of a surprise, after all his flirting looks. Chaste, but still charged.

She feels both powerful and exposed in the pose he chooses for her. Her resolve grows as she feels him back away from her.  
  
“Now. Do you suppose you can keep from laughing for a while?” he asks from the easel. She glances carefully over her poised shoulder to see the glint in his eye.  
  
“I will try,” she says, and already struggles to keep the smirk off her mouth.  
  
~``~  
  
She sheds her skirt for the second sitting, though she's chosen a slip long enough to keep her comfortable under Howell’s ever probing eye. He also produces a pair of socks for her.

“No heat,” he shrugs.  
  
They actually look and smell clean, so she pulls them on.

“Thank you,” she says, and he tucks her feet back just so, a hand lingering a moment around one slender ankle. He pulls gently against her shoulder until it comes around to a position he likes.

She sits and listens to the sound of charcoal on paper, sketch after sketch. She rehearses new aspects of her act in her mind, and tries not to wiggle or smile too often. Sometimes, though, the scratch of Howell's drawing stills, and she can just make him out, from the corner of her eye, staring.

And that makes her smile grow.

~``~

Howell moves from charcoal sketches to paints, and Midge begins to look forward to the mornings she is free of daytime work and the children. She loves her children dearly. Of course she does. She still spends every afternoon she can watching them grow into miniature human beings.

She just begins to anticipate her time in Howell's studio the same way she would a vacation. She so rarely has time alone, and even though Howell is always there, even though there's an angry purpose to her being there, there is also something... weightless about the studio.

Maybe it's the fumes of turpentine and oil. Maybe, unlike the mystics her mother doesn't want anyone to know she visits, she has unwittingly mastered the art of astral projection in all this still and quiet. Maybe she's sleeping with her eyes open. Whatever it is, this weightless feeling, she will take it.

She stops struggling into her girdle on studio mornings, and that helps, too. She always wears a full slip over her bra and underwear, as a layer of defense against Howell's roaming gaze, but she feels freer and freer in her half-dressed state.

His attention is ever-present, which is basically to be expected under the circumstances, but his care in arranging her remains... measured, however desirous his looks might sometimes be.

The cans and tubes and jars of color that populate his front room begin to migrate into a semi-circular island around Howell's easel. Midge is a little worried by the increasing varieties of green and yellow that appear among them, as her eyes are blue and her hair brunette, but when she makes a joke about it, Howell replies “Trust me, darling,” and brushes a curled lock over her ear.

He doesn't allow her to see his progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These sections essentially signal the end of levity for a bit. It's going to get more dramatic after this. Also, I apologize now and in advance for being unable to properly describe Rufus Sewell's incredible skill at eye-contact and micro-expressions. That's where a lot of the inspiration for this whole thing started, and I so wish I could just plug my brain in and show you what I have imagined. But my imperfect vocabulary will have to do. 
> 
> Thank you for continuing to read.


	5. Anger and Stillness

Months pass in quiet sunlight and careful touches.

Rose and Abe Weissman finally learn of Miriam and Benjamin's separation, and so does Joel. Belatedly, Midge realizes that only Susie, Lenny Bruce, and Howell – and a couple hundred random audience members who don't count – were aware of the split. She hadn't meant to hide it from her ex-husband, it's just that her life has become a series of overlapping obligations, with little time to talk about anything more than coordinating schedules when they hand off the kids. Which is generally somewhere between the Club and the Village.

She is surprised at how angrily Joel receives the news.

There's a row about open communication and continuity for the sake of the children. Joel says some things Midge doesn't believe he actually means, but they hurt all the same. He insists that the kids stay with him for a while, and she relents. She's angry, and hurt, and tearful, but he says that it's too unstable for them to stay in her house-sit – even though she's been there for months, occupying it for wealthy, absent acquaintances, and just around the corner from the townhouse. She doesn't really believe it's unstable, either, but she agrees anyway. Like a putz.

She just wants the yelling to stop.

She's not intending to turn up at Howell's door after the fight, but it's where her feet carry her. Of course, it's one of the few days she finds his door not only shut, but locked.

Midge isn't dressed for sitting, either, and the light through the windows is wrong. She usually arrives in the early morning, and he sends her away in time for lunch. But Howell lets her in anyway.

His look is as penetrating as ever, but the ever-so-slightly dangerous glimmer of curiosity is replaced by something almost somber as he steps out of her way at the threshold. He can see her agitation, and instead of running headlong at the conflict, he's reeling himself in.

“I just need... to sit,” she says, meeting his eyes before he can ask her anything, or pretend to be understanding.He only studies her a moment longer before nodding and pulling back the sliding bookcase.

He follows her, still clutching a wine bottle by the neck, and maybe he expects her to sit down as she is because he doesn't turn his back or walk away as she shrugs out of her jacket.

But Midge keeps going, and Howell keeps watching.

She tugs the blouse from the waist of her slacks and wriggles out of them, kicking her flats across the room at the same time. She unbuttons just enough buttons to pull her blouse and camisole over her head like a sweater.

Howell stares, without letting anything lascivious play in his expression. If anything, he looks sad as he takes her in in this new state of undress.

“Miriam,” he says her name and it sounds like a warning. She drops to the chair, head in her hands.

She wants to be still, to be quiet, to be watched in silence, but there are angry tears in her eyes. No man can resist a damsel in distress.

Howell knows she is no damsel.

He comes forward like he would to pose her, but he doesn't touch her. He crouches low, sets the wine carefully aside, and looks up into her face.

She doesn't want him to say anything. She doesn't want to be soothed or comforted. She wills her eyes to tell him so, and he's quiet while he watches her emotions unfolding.

She can see his thoughts, as well, shifting the masks he wears, from carefully open and watchful, to the tired, resigned artist underneath, and back. She watches the edges of his expressions, where the masks lift, and, not for nothing, she can't spot the flirtation.

She can't hang her anger at Joel – at Benjamin – on Howell. She can't stay angry and be here at the same time.

Midge breaks eye-contact with a long, slow inhale and an exhalation that carries her up to lean into the chair's back. She squeezes her eyes tight for a long moment, then blows another extended breath out through her nose. She leaves her eyes closed, willing the lingering tears not to fall.

She feels Howell's fingers close around her ankle, and a breath of his own blows over her knee. His hand is warm and firm, but still careful. It slides up her calf and behind her knee. Drags along her thigh and cups the jut of bone where her hip curves up to meet her torso. Presses through the structured material of her girdle.

There's a pause, and then the pressure of his hand is gone. She imagines him straightening from his crouch, hovering over her. Wonders what expression he has now, and in the same moment decides it doesn't matter.

She hears the scuff of his shoes along the floor, retreating, and then returning.

His hands are gentle and light again, coaxing her feet up from the floor, her shoulders into a protective curve, folding and pressing her into the contours of rest. Soft warmth like a blanket replaces his touch, and she listens to him move about without ever opening her eyes.

Even with the pinch of restricting undergarments and the echoing starkness of her environment, Miriam falls asleep in Howell's chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember if Joel's club from season three actually has a name or not, so I called it the Club, in case that was confusing. I remember Archie recommending The Button Club, but I don't remember if that was ever actually decided on, so. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	6. Recognized

When she wakes, Miriam is lying in a bed, in the same state of undress, with no memory of getting there. And she doesn't feel violated by the realization, or like she's been preyed upon.

She feels warm, and rested. Cared for.

She's wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown and covered by a down duvet. Her clothes lie folded on the mattress beside her. Atop her clothes sits a tented page of note paper with a line drawing that might be a light-bulb with eyes.

“Gone for drink – DH” is scrawled in looping script on the inside of the page.

She pulls the dressing gown around the right way, tugs it over her shoulders, and belts it around herself. She wanders the space without Howell's eyes tracing her movements for the first time. She's never been upstairs before, and besides the bed, the loft is brimming with canvas and stacks of books.

Downstairs, she eyes the pilfered painting, where it now tilts, half-fallen and half-forgotten, behind the untidy rows of paints. She reaches across and knocks it all the way to the floor behind the table.

She searches out the release mechanism and pulls the Houdini door back. Scans the white room, usually streaming with light, now cast in evening shadows.

The masterpiece is there beneath its shroud, too large to hide. She's tempted to tug the cover down, but knows she couldn't get it back up on her own.

_Her_ painting is missing, nowhere to be seen. She has no idea where he always disappears it to. But charcoal sketches are strewn across the floor. In some the features are general, the contours sweeping. In others only one aspect stands out in detail amidst a jumble of gestures Miriam doesn't understand. In all of them lies a woman, curved like a sleeping feline. She evokes something powerful and serene.

Midge likes to be noticeable. She likes to be looked at and laughed with. It's the life she has chosen for herself. But it's been very rarely that she has ever felt seen. Recognized...

Midge dresses and hangs the robe from an exposed nail by the door. She tucks the light-bulb note into the inside pocket of her jacket. Her first Declan Howell, she thinks with half a smile.

She's gone before Howell returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read.


	7. Craving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midge doesn't have a strong grasp of art movements.

Midge avoids the studio for a week and a half.

She and Susie double down on radio work. She takes a “party gig” for Ginger and gets drunk with a room full of milder strangers than she's encountered in a while. She coaxes her mother out of her dark mood long enough to have a real conversation about the state of Midge's career before Rose shuts down again. She goes to hear Lenny at an uptown club, and it's nice to match wits and trade war stories afterward. There's a tension between them that gives off sparks, but there's also an understanding, a carefully toed line.

She manages to have a civilized conversation with Joel, and shared-custody resumes.

It's not that she isn't thinking about the painting, the light filled room, the chair that has become her throne.

She is.

Midge craves the quiet and the stillness that is otherwise absent from her life. She likes that there is somewhere she can go to be alone, even for a few hours, and not actually have to be alone. She's found someplace where she can escape the life she has accepted for herself and still keep everything she's chosen.

It's not that she isn't thinking about Howell – craving the twinkle and focus of his attention...

On the eleventh day, she rises early, dons the only wrap-around dress in her wardrobe that isn't beachwear, and makes her way to the Village.

Howell's expression is unsurprised when he opens the door to her. “I didn't think you'd be back,” he says, but the set of his mouth says 'I knew you were coming back.'

She smiles at him, wordlessly, and he's scrutinizing her as she moves through his personal space and into the studio.

“Thought about burning it,” he says, with a scrunched nose and a frown, but his eyes are dancing.

“But you didn't,” she says, matter of fact, and his look is affectionate when he shakes his head.

“No, I didn't,” he affirms.

The door to the hidden space is already open, and he leads her through. The work in progress is on his easel and he blocks it from her prying eyes, staring her down as she cranes her neck.

Midge steps out of her shoes and sets her handbag beside them. She loosens the tie of her dress, and it isn't like the last time. She isn't angry and desperate to be free of the weight of her life. Howell's eyes aren't sad, or shocked.

He isn't leering, but he isn't turning away, either.

She holds his gaze as the dress drops from her shoulders. Her breasts are free beneath her silk slip, which grazes her thigh well above the knee.

She sets herself on the chair and approximates his arrangement of her.

For an elongated moment, Howell's eyes are the brightest she's seen them since the night they met. There's a look that recalls enchanted milk and incandescence. Vermeer's light.

She watches him shift, almost imperceptibly, as he collects himself.

Another moment's hesitation passes, and he comes to her.

His eyes are everywhere, cataloging and appraising, but the usual edge of a smirk and twinkle of mischief is carefully absent. His hands are familiar and gentle as he places her, shifts her just so.

He meets her eye again, and there's a curiosity there, a question, and she's daring him to speak. But a finger presses her chin and turns her gaze away.

Howell takes his time opening jars and selecting brushes, but the sounds are all those with which Miriam has become intimately acquainted over these past months. They soon shift to the rasp of brushes on canvas.

It doesn't seem like enough time has passed before Howell is wiping his hands on a paint-stained rag and making all the sounds that generally precede him leaving her to dress and sending her out.

“Alright,” he says, and she breaks the pose. “It's finished.”

“What?”

“Finished,” he repeats. “Done. There is nothing more to be accomplished.” He sounds suddenly desperately tired, and agitated.

Midge hesitates, watching him for tricks or cues. But there's nothing unusual, which feels unusual for him. She hadn't been expecting this.

“May I see it?” she asks, and her voice sounds small and uncertain.

“Of course.” His expression and tone say 'It's your painting, or had you forgotten?' He nods toward her and then toward the canvas, beckoning.

She rushes for the easel so quickly she nearly tangles in the drape over the chair, but she catches herself and rounds the canvas.

She can feel him beside her, appraising her reaction. And maybe a few other things, too, but she doesn't care.

Not right now. Not in the face of... herself.

Intellectually, she knows that Declan Howell is an abstract expressionist, even if she has never understood how abstract expressionism is supposed to work as art. How can it _express_ anything that can be understood by anyone other than the artist?, she has wondered. She has therefore prepared herself not to recognize whatever would come of this agreement.

And it could be argued that what she sees has no resemblance to a human woman, whatsoever. But, on the other hand, how could anyone who knows her see anyone else?

“Howell...” His name is an inhalation and yet she feels she cannot breathe.

He watches her react, watches the play of emotion on her face and smiles faintly. But when she turns her awe on him, he looks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a few weeks out from the first draft of this chapter, and I feel like Midge is a bit selfish here. Which is fine, I just don't know if I am actually conveying the subtle things I think I am conveying between these two or not. If you are inclined, please let me know your impressions of the dynamic going on so far; or ask me/tell me to clarify anything. There is definitely more coming to help flesh out all the unsaid, but I don't want to lose anyone because I'm too stingy and coy with my own writing.
> 
> I will be out of town the end of this week through early next week, and might not be able to post on my usual days. Please be patient if I am unable to get anything up while I am away. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	8. Revenge(?)

Susie gets in touch with her connections, who in turn put her in touch with the right people to organize a showing of Declan Howell originals. As it turns out, the rumor of his masterpiece precedes him. Even though his reputation remains undesirable, galleries jump at the opportunity to show Howell's work without too much convincing. Although Susie is careful with her language when the mucky-mucks ask that the painting be included, like a pretentious round of 'Who's on first.' Susie likes dealing with the art world about as much as she likes dealing with other talent managers and bookers (not at all), but she's pretty good at it.

The noise around the show's announcement is loud, and travels fast. New rumors spread, about the outrageous restrictions that have been placed on the gallery, and the security that will be present on opening night.

Some say Howell has insisted his agent personally select who will and won't be allowed entry at the door.

Some say the reason he's showing is because he's in deep to the mob.

Some say he's fallen head over heals for a young woman artist and he's only agreed to show to drum up interest in her work, which is also showing. (In actuality, Agnes Reynolds barely understands what the scheme is between Uptown and Infamous, but she accepts the opportunity they're handing her on a shiny platter.)

Some say Howell's so desperate for cash he's already sold the masterpiece, and it's the new owner who's arranged the show to publicly gloat.

On the night of the opening, it comes out that all of Howell's displayed works have indeed already sold, but the owner or owners aren't making themselves known, much to the dismay of competitive collectors.

The murmur passing through the throng of attendees claims the lone titled piece among Howell's showing works, _M_ _r_ _s. X_ , is the actual infamous painting. Susie doesn't even have to start that rumor, it just grows on its own.

Only Midge knows, or will probably ever know, how sadly mistaken they all are.

Midge considered not even coming, but it would defeat the purpose of the whole exercise if she can't see her revenge carried out. She makes herself inconspicuous, keeping to the Reynolds side of the gallery while the masses idle as long as they're able amongst the Howells before more people push their way through. She keeps an eye on Howell, though, where he leans with his arms crossed, chain-smoking and drinking, rarely deigning to acknowledge anyone who approaches. She watches Howell, and watches for the arrival of a handsome doctor.

It's difficult not to notice when Benjamin arrives, so tall and radiating agitated energy. Midge signals Susie, who is not thrilled by the situation to begin with, and they follow Benjamin's progress from a careful distance. Howell is suddenly alert and affable, adapting the boisterous demeanor generally reserved for the bars.

Midge watches Benjamin scan the paintings, sees the recognition turn to irritation as he approaches the piece Howell stole back from him. She can practically feel him bristling from across the crowd.

She braces as he rounds a partition toward _M_ _r_ _s. X_.

Understanding breaks slowly across his expression, then all at once. He takes it in. Takes her in. He leans close to read the title on the small card beneath the canvas. The name is half an artist's joke and half a reference only a few people close to Midge would know.

The play of anguish and anger on his face as he whips around, searching the crowd, turns her stomach.

“Declan!” Benjamin calls, shouts over the low hum of the tittering crowd. “Declan!”

“Present!” Howell pipes up, smiling around at passing art tourists and gossip hounds as if he doesn't know exactly who shouted his name.

Benjamin shoulders his way to Howell's place by the bar, looms over him, but Howell smiles blearily on.

“What the fuck is this, Declan,” Benjamin practically spits his words, jabbing a finger alternately at the artist and _Mrs. X_.

“Why Doctor!” Howell smiles and blinks. “Don't you recognize your wife?”

Howell is still smiling, but his eyes are cold and taunting. Midge watches the coil of tension break across Benjamin's shoulders as his fist connects with Howell's face.

A chorus of shrieks erupts in the crowd, and bodies surge all around as people run for the doors or toward a fight. The security guards Susie insisted on spring from their posts and push through the crush to the towering doctor, panting with rage, and the laughing artist crumpled beneath him.

“She isn't for sale, Doctor,” Howell laughs as Benjamin is dragged away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now. Revenge isn't always sweet, is it Midge? Drama!
> 
> Mrs. X is both a reference to "Mrs. X at the Gaslight" and an illusion to John Singer Sargent's "Portrait of Madame X." I realized pretty quickly that the way I imagined Howell posing Midge was extremely reminiscent of some of Sargent's figure studies for Madame X, and then I thought it would just be fun to combine the comedy tape reference and the art reference into Mrs. X. I do not, however, imagine in any way that Howell's painting looks anything like Sargent's. I imagine it as somewhere between abstract expressionism and lyrical abstraction. In case anyone was interested. 
> 
> I leave for travel this afternoon, and as previously mentioned, won't be able to post until late next week. I anticipate about five more chapters to go, although I do think I will add a bit and rewrite a bit more as I was inspired by the response to last chapter's question. (There is also a Midge/Lenny spin-off/sequel brewing in my brain, but we'll see how this is received first.) Please be patient, I promise I am going to finish this!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.


	9. The End of Something

Howell remains punch-drunk, or maybe just drunk-drunk, the whole ride to the studio. His laughter is punctuated by sudden outbursts of triumph and dirty poetry. It takes a lot of struggle to get him to hold the handkerchief full of ice against his face as he sways in his seat.

Miriam apologizes profusely and hands the cabbie a larger than average gratuity when they arrive.

Howell is heavy across Midge's shoulder, but she barely registers his heat and his weight there before they're tripping through his door.

“Well. That was fun,” he says and rights himself, sliding away from Midge as the door clicks shut. “Drink?”

His expression is clear, eyebrows expectant as he raises a glass and a bottle of Scotch in her direction.

She must be gaping, because his next words are “Never as drunk as people think.” An echo of the first time she occupied this space alone with him.

She takes the offered glass, and continues to watch him. His cheek is still swollen, and his eye is beginning to purple.

“What about that?” She gestures toward the bruise with the remnants of the ice, afraid to touch it and hurt him, while he pours for her.

“Hmm? This?” He lays his fingers across the spot and Midge winces even though he doesn't.

His eyes are twinkling.

“Worth it,” he says. “Women love a war wound.”

“Uh huh.” Midge attempts to nod and roll her eyes at the same time. She sips the Scotch, watching him go about hanging up his one good suit jacket and finding another empty glass. He finds one, and fills it, and raises it toward her.

“A toast,” he says. He's still smiling. She raises her glass as well.

“To revenge” he says, and drinks deep. The smile slips to his customary vague amusement. He refills his glass.

“To absurdity.” He swallows with a wince.

“To taking things as far as they'll go.” He's holding his empty glass out to her, but it falls in time with his expression, leaving her cold.

He turns away, refilling his glass as he goes.

“Declan,” she says, and she hears something strain in her own voice.

“No, don't call me that.” He shakes his head.

She can see him deflating, watches him slump against the trick bookcase.

He's retreating when she wants him to advance.

“Howell.”

She hears the inhalation, the small groan. The old bit. He straightens where he leans, but doesn't turn back to her.

She leaves her glass and the puddling ice among the paints and goes to him instead.

“Howell,” she repeats, her hand coming to his shoulder.

He glances over her and back to the glass in his hand. He looks tired. The same sort of tired as the day he told her her painting was finished. He looks pensive and still, the opposite of an impish scamp. She half expects – hopes? – he'll ask her to bed again, just to surprise her, but it doesn't come.

He refuses her eyes, and it occurs to her that this is the end of something. He's all but telling her they're done. After all this time, after all the flirtation, and planning, she's made her revenge a reality, and it's not what she expected. Seeing the look on Benjamin's face; feeling the knots coil and release in her stomach; hearing Howell defend her tonight, even if he was talking about the painting. She has her revenge, but she doesn't have what she wants.

And then something else occurs to her.

“May I see it?” she asks, and that raises his head.

He knows what she's talking about. Her painting is still locked in the gallery. That leaves only the masterpiece. It's been looming over her for ages without revealing itself, and she wants to see it again. If this is how it's going to end, she wants to see it first.

She wants him to see it.

He studies her, drawing the moment out with a slight squint, like maybe he'll refuse. But he nods and opens the Houdini door.

~``~

She waits for him to pull down the sheet, and for an instant it seems he's waiting, too.

Howell is the one to unveil it, though, and that feels right.

If Miriam is honest with herself, she feels afraid to get too close to the canvas.

It looks different as it reflects and absorbs electric light. Not quite the same as she remembers it in daylight. But it's still the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

It still glows. Its colors still seem to shatter and reform in ways that should be impossible by the laws of the natural world. Even the darkness looks like it's leaking light. Like fireworks that never go out, or every star shooting from the sky at once... but a thousand, thousand times more.

It still overwhelms her.

She feels its pull, and the weightlessness of punctuated escapes returns.

He watches her settle into her stillness.

She can feel his eyes, his faint smile, even though the painting has her whole attention, and it's so beautiful.

He's standing beside her when she finally tears her gaze away. His smile is small but present when she turns to him, and that keeps her afloat as she works words up from her chest.

“You never asked me why,” she says.

After a pause, he says “'Revenge'.” And there's a gleam, the tiredness fallen away.

“You never asked why I sent you his address,” she clarifies.

“Hmm,” he hums and nods, perhaps realizing for the first time it's not the same reason. “Did you want me to?” His look shifts towards calculating, but he's holding her eyes. The playful thing inside him is there.

She considers her response a moment before answering, “No.” It may not always have been, but right now it's the truth. She doesn't want to think about how she arrived at this instant.

“I did thank you, though. Didn't I?” he asks, shifting into a sidelong look that fits his impish persona.

“Actually, I don't think you have,” she says, her smile growing as she watches him sway while his feet somehow remain planted.

“Ah, well,” he says, and winks so fast she isn't sure she actually sees it. But the words 'thank you' do not follow, from his mouth or his expression.

There's a moment that feels charged with hesitation before he pivots to face her straight on, turning his back to the canvas. “I also never asked what he did to deserve such revenge.”

She's jarred by the statement, and he must see it because he leans in. “I don't need to know,” he reassures.

But now she's thinking about it, and maybe it is the same reason: the note and the revenge.

“He was going to sell it,” she says in a sudden rush of words. “Your painting. He was going to sell it. He owns so many beautiful things, and they're all trophies. They're all... game pieces. Buying and selling and swooping in to snap things up when someone else is distracted. Collecting.”

Howell's expression is carefully neutral as he listens, but his eyes are sharp as he follows her.

“And I realized,” she continues, “as often as he threw around words like 'spectacular', I really didn't understand my role in the game. I mean, sure, my own intentions weren't exactly the most pure, but I still thought I loved him as much as he loved me. And vice versa... But when he was going to sell that...-”

She flails an arm toward the front room, in the general direction of the painting that once hung in her bedroom, forgetting that it isn't there anymore, either. A trace of anguish flickers over her face and his gaze goes soft.

“I knew. I understood... I _believe_ that he loves me, but... I don't want to be loved like that. I don't want to be part of a collection.” She finishes with a deep breath and meets his gaze again. She feels the angry heat going out of her cheeks and she smiles, almost sheepishly, at the fondness she finds on his face.

“I suppose I ought to thank him,” he says, matching her smile. And he's waiting for her reaction.

“What for?” she scoffs in a burst of unexpected laughter.

He just smiles at her as he moves closer.

And closer. His eyes track hers, and she knows what's coming because he broadcasts everything in expressions she can read, and he knows she can read. They've drawn each other out again, and he's never stopped telling her.

And his look says, 'I am trying to seduce you.' And her eyes follow his, goading, saying, 'So seduce me.'

“For completely underestimating you,” he breathes, answering her question, and she can feel his words on her neck.

Her eyes drop closed. She is still weightless.

Still alone.

“Howell,” she says, and it's a whisper and a command.

His fingers brush back her curls and his lips catch the skin beneath her ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not let the chapter title fool you, there is more to come! And thank you so much for having patience while I was away.
> 
> I am rather happy with this, actually. It got a lot longer and overtly emotional after considering the lovely comments I have received, but I felt it was right that these two sections go together in one chapter. I will say, though, that a lot of it was written on my phone while I was in the fits of a migraine while away, and then got edited into what I already had while staving off another migraine today. Which is my way of saying, I apologize for any errors/typos/confusions that may have been overlooked because of/resulted from my poor neurological health of late. 
> 
> Also: the next chapter is going to be sexy. Nothing graphic or overly-explicit, but probably NSFW unless you work somewhere cool. Consider this fair warning if you want to avoid it.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading. <3


	10. Indescribable Color, Overflowing Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexual content. Reader discretion advised.

She thinks he'll be firm, and the confidence is there. But his hands are as light as they've ever been, skimming her arms, cupping her cheek.

She knows the feel of his hands at her shoulder, against her elbow, under her chin. They've become familiar in these places. And now his lips follow the trails of his fingertips, tilting her head to mouth wordlessly across her throat.

His fingers are in her hair, carding through her fashionably set curls, brushing the nape of her neck, gliding her back to poised.

Her eyes open, and he's still watching, clear green eyes considering, stroking her jaw with his thumbs while his palms cradle her neck.

_This_ _is_ _what it feels..._ \- She doesn't want to finish the sentence.

To be adored? To be desired? To be seen.

Instead, she reaches for the buttons of her dress, an invitation. She doesn't hear the low sound he makes so much as she feels its vibration where she's pressed against him. He takes her place, working each button open while she watches.

He's seen her in her underthings before, dozens of times now; that is familiar, too. He's actively participating in her undressing, though, and the heat in her fair skin rises.

There are more pieces to undo, unhook, pull away, and he does all the work for her, slowly circling her, capturing every detail with his attentive gaze.

His lips brush the welts that her corseting leaves behind, and she reaches for him, but he retreats.

Her reaction must read 'hurt,' because he steps back to her, smoothing her hair as he comes.

“Just a moment,” he says, while his eyes tell her 'I promise.' His lips press her jaw and he's gone again.

Miriam stands against the backdrop of broken color, almost naked, trying not to second-guess...

This is where she wants to be. She turns back to the immense canvas, letting it cast its curious spell, and tiny bumps erupt all along her arms, where they cross protectively around her, and elsewhere, as she begins to cool. Before she can resolve to pull her dress back on, though, Howell is bursting into the room in an explosion of down and blankets.

He takes just enough time to lay the bed dressings at her feet before he pulls her back toward him. Before his lips are at her collarbone and his hands at the small of her back. His mouth drags over her – neck, shoulder, breast – and she shivers for reasons that have nothing to do with temperature.

_Finally, finally..._

She barely manages to get his belt away from him before he's retreating again, this time going to his knees before her.

His hands rest against the points of her pelvis, and his slack gaze is on her expression, openly curious, asking. Always watching. Always saying things with his eyes and his look that his voice can't. Or won't.

She meets his look with one of her own, and a nod to reinforce it.

Her last layer of defense, her only remaining garment, slides with his hands to the floor. She watches all his masks fall away in the widening of his eyes, and his look borders on worshipful.

His mouth is hot, and his fingers gentle. He anchors her, first with a hand at her ankle, the point he knows, and then behind her thigh. He teases her until her legs tremble and her fingers lock in his hair. Then he rises to enfold her, only to guide her down to the duvet with him and return to his service.

He savors her as she lies before him, on his tongue and his fingertips. And when his eyes aren't closed in his own pleasure at her gasps, he watches her body respond and react. She tries, so hard, to hold his eyes, but it grows unbearable, the pressure inside her, and she searches the expanse of color above her for release.

“That's right, darling,” he speaks into the skin at her hip, encouraging. Winding her higher and playing her out. Coaxing her ecstasy from her in slow waves.

His name transforms in her throat, and she is all but howling into the painting rising over them as she floats out of herself. She is weightless yet full of color and light. Light that pours from her as he watches her come undone.

He follows the flex and strain of every muscle, delights in her sounds, and his touch prolongs the ripples rolling through her until she is completely shattered. Until she is feverish and glowing, and quiet.

He pulls a blanket over her and stretches up beside her, an unmoving hand cupping the delicate flesh between her thighs, warm, solid, and grounding. She curls toward him, and searches his expression with unfocused eyes. He wears the face he tries to keep from the world, tired and resigned, but with an amused curve to his mouth. And his eyes reflect her light.

She reaches for him. Her fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt, and her sigh of frustration is promising one thing while her blinking eyes tell him another. A hand closes over her fingers and stops her. He leans close and presses his lips to her brow.

“You don't need to. It's alright, darling. Rest.”

He pulls away far enough that she can see his face. His eyes tell the same story as his words. She huffs softly, but she's already drifting on fading tremors while he keeps watch.

~``~

She dreams in abstract light and sensations of floating on a calm sea. Before long, she returns to her body, and he is still holding her. She can hear his heart beating, his breathing, and he is whispering into her hair while a thumb strokes the place he first kissed her neck.

“'She comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone...'”

A finger grazes her seam, a lazy extension of the hand against her thigh.

“'And gallops night by night through lovers' brains, o'er courtiers knees, o'er ladies lips...'” His voice trails off as she turns just enough to meet his eyes.

They are watchful as ever, and hinting at wonder. Maybe awe.

As heavy as her limbs feel, a new sense of weightlessness is swelling in her. Warm. Wanted. Seen.

“Thought you were done with Shakespeare,” she murmurs, and he nearly laughs, smiling down at her.

“He had his moments,” he offers, and turns a shrug into an embrace. He holds her against himself, shaping her with hands suddenly strong and firm, pulling her in. His lips press at the crown of her hair.

His hands sweep over her and bracket her face, brushing the freed curls back. And she shifts to see him again. He's waiting for her to match his gaze, meet his eyes, steady but insistent.

“Thank you,” he speaks, and there is no twinkling mischief or subterfuge. No mask of drunkenness or inattention. No 'darling' to blunt his meaning.

Earnest, open, and raw. He holds her eyes, reading her, until he sees her recognize his honesty.

And her eyes are curious, searching for the trick, the surprise, the scamp. But they aren't there. For once she can't quite read what he's leaving unsaid, but she can feel the weight of it behind the words, in his look.

What has she done to deserve his thanks? What has she done but taken her revenge, then taken her pleasure?

But that isn't all. Because he's been watching her for months, and... she has seen this expression before.

_To taking something as far as it will go._

He's releasing her from his hands when her recognition breaks in a wide smile. It's a feeling and an echo, something he doesn't believe he deserves, and she's heard the words before.

And she pulls herself back against him, refusing to let him withdraw, and claims his mouth with hers for the first time.

~``~

He was worshipful, before. He was hungry, yes, but his desires were all about her pleasure. Watching her feel everything she already embodied to him.  
  
He hadn’t allowed himself to expect that she should reciprocate. He hadn't considered it. Not after months of cat and mouse (who was the cat, though, and who the mouse?), weighted looks, and just-this-side of ribald teasing. Not after fending her away from his buttons and avoiding her grasping hands. But she _want_ _s_ , he can see it in the fire of her eyes. Taste it on her smiling lips.

With the strength of that kiss the rest of his hunger rises to the fore.  
  
And if he is ravenous now, she’s goddamn feral.

Miriam is strong, and sure of herself. She's intentional beauty and steely confidence. She conducts whole rooms of people in laughter and manipulates perspectives for a living; how could anyone think she wouldn’t be just as confident in this as she is on the stage?  
  
Howell hadn’t doubted. He'd even fantasized a little, but he never expected to find out.

She is offering, though. Actively and vigorously giving, and so he takes.  
  
He keeps enough control not to bruise, mesmerized by her cream complexion shot-through with pink lust. But his hands aren’t as gentle, his touch not so delicate. He doesn’t just graze the surface. He can feel her strength, and he matches it.

She feels on fire around him, and he stokes that flame with every tug of her hair and, when he pulls from her mouth to steady himself, pulls her up, with the draw of his lips at her breast. And she's nearly howling again, whining into his hair, raking his sides and tearing at his clothes.

When he's finally entirely free of his pants, and wrapped in the just-in-case condom from her purse (My god, this woman!), when he holds her over himself and then slides home, she laughs with the pleasure.

She's a force unto herself, mesmerizing and demanding, and every stroke brings laughter and the indescribable flood of color to her skin. With him inside her, his hand between them, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders, the light overflows her again.

And it's better than anything his brushes and paints could ever translate, better than he could envision. Her laughter and her bliss are the most beautiful things he sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Le Sigh*  
> Thank you very much for reading.
> 
> Parts of this chapter were there from the beginning, and parts of it showed up just today. It's been quite an evolution, but I knew I had to get it up today and keep my schedule or I would never let it be done. I feel so nervous and simultaneously relieved to share it. Please, if you feel inclined to let me know how it read for you, please be gentle. I've written sex before, but this has been particularly personal for me. Good god. I thank you. 
> 
> There's a bit more levity and a bit more drama yet to come, but I think probably just two more chapters. 
> 
> ["F*ck Shakespeare!" Declan shouts at me. To which I retort, "You're the f*cker who brought him up!" and roll my eyes at myself.]


	11. Diamond

It's not as though nothing has changed by morning. There's a freedom to her smile and a weight in his touch that weren't there before.

But many things have not changed by morning. Miriam struggles back into her ridiculous undergarments, scrubs what's smudged from her face and reapplies her makeup (Howell may not have a sink, but there is a tub and a spigot in his unfinished bathroom), finger-combs her hair and re-pins it as best she can. Tugs the wrinkles from her dress. She looks impossibly put together for the circumstances when she descends his stairs.

“After all my hard work,” Howell grumbles playfully as she spins for him.

“Presentable?” she asks, though she thinks the twinkle in his look would be there whether she were dressed, naked, or covered in... _Hmmm, an unfinished joke_ _._

“Unfortunately,” he pretends to pout some more.

“Well... too bad.” She can't think of anything wittier with him staring like that, and her impatient life is waiting for her.

There are things to say, probably, but they don't get said. She presses her lips against his bruised cheek, runs her hands over the lapel of his dressing gown with a sigh, and departs for the outside world.

Nothing has really changed.

Howell drinks his breakfast, cleans the remnants of last night's encounter out of the painting's room, closes the Houdini door, and sets about preparing a new canvas for work. In the evening, he joins the usual suspects at the Cedar Tavern, allows them to toast his opening, buy his supper and his drinks, fuss over his black eye. And in return he regales them all with an over-loud medley of limericks and a jumble of “America” and “God Save the Queen.”

But it's not as though nothing has changed, because there's a lightness to his antics, an inability to commit to his usual level of cynicism, and the others can see it. And he doesn't care.

~``~

The chatter around the Declan Howell show pitches up with news of the fight on opening night, but when the artist doesn't return to the gallery and no more theatrics break out, the noise dies quickly. Agnes manages to sell most of her paintings, and she sends Midge a cobalt blue beret and a small still-life as thanks.

Both artists' works hang for the agreed upon week before the gallery begins preparing for its next installation.

Miriam anticipates – with a hint of relish – having to retrieve her painting from Howell, and maybe fight over it, but it arrives carefully wrapped directly from the gallery without issue. She suspects Susie has something to do with this efficiency. The painting that used to hang in the townhouse comes with it, and Midge doesn't know how, nor have time to react to its arrival. The canvases lean in the foyer, still mostly wrapped, for two days.

On the third day, she returns to her borrowed home after a long day of radio work to find Benjamin sitting on her front steps.

“Are we doing this here,” he asks, and his words are calm, but there's something of a growl beneath them.

Midge hesitates. On the one hand, a public space tends to keep him composed, but on the other, she's often brought out his more passionate tendencies, and privacy might be better for this confrontation.

“No,” she shakes her head, resolved, and unlocks the entryway door. “You should come up.”

They hold a charged silence between them as she leads him through the Applemans' home to the back stair and up to her apartment. When she pushes the door open, his eyes immediately shift to the paintings. Even with just the corner of the wrapping torn it's clear what they are, and Benjamin stops short in the doorway.

A flurry of emotions run across his expression and he struggles to remain calm. It's like he's fighting the words he's about to say, but his look settles on smug. She's surprised, then, when his words come out accusatory.

“How long?” Benjamin asks, and Midge doesn't follow.

“What?”

“How long have you been having an affair with Declan Howell?” And that does come out a growl.

“Benjamin! Don't be stupid!” But he is being stupid.

“Don't tell me I'm wrong! I've heard the rumors. If he's been passing that off as the painting, it has to've been a while.”

He doesn't quite look at her, but glares somewhere over her shoulder while carefully controlling his breath.

Midge is so stunned at the accusation she can't get any words out of her throat. She just stares, open mouthed and incredulous, until his face falls from smug to anger in an instant. He finally looks her full in the face with a crazed fury in his eyes.

“Did you fuck him to sell me that painting?”

She slaps him, hard, without even realizing she's done it until she's clutching one stinging hand with the other.

“How dare you! How DARE you!”

“He wanted to. From the first moment at that bar, he wanted to! And then I left you alone with him – like an idiot! – and all of a sudden he'll sell. I was so blinded by you, I-”

She hits him again, shouting “Stop!” at the same time.

“Just stop, or so help me I might really hurt you!” She rages right back at him.

They stare each other down, breaths coming in sharp gusts and eyes on fire. He maintains his accusatory look and she retains her disgust, and it's exhausting, but she knows how this goes with him, just like she knows how it would have gone with Joel. Just like she knows she will never be a wife again. And it isn't real, and it isn't worth it.

“How dare you,” Midge whispers, repeating, turning away and leaving him at the door. It isn't worth the energy to draw it out.

She can hear his exhalations as she walks away, and soon he follows her into the kitchen. He accepts the glass of water she hands him as he schools his features once more. Even at a full foot above her, it's like he's looking up at her through his eyebrows when he meets her harsh gaze again.

She remains steely, though, not yielding to his softness or reestablished calm.

“You aren't coming home, are you,” he says more than asks.

“This is home.”

“This is Sarah and Appleman's house,” he argues.

“Well, this is where I live. For now,” she concedes, but her coldness remains.

“And then?” His crazy ability to hope stabs at her, but they both know where this is going. _This_ fight they've had before.

She takes a moment to fill her own glass and sip. She wants to redirect course.

“We both knew, didn't we?” she asks. “We both knew I wasn't giving up when we got back together, didn't we?”

“Of course, Miriam,” he says, and his hand catches her arm before her look makes him pull away.

“But, did you really think we would last when I started touring again?”

“I hoped.”

“How long?” She hears herself echo him, but the words have an entirely different meaning now.

“Til the Howell disappeared... Along with my Scotch,” he adds with a quirk of an eyebrow and a glance at the ceiling. How very Benjamin to trivialize something painful by focusing on the more minor slight. It's a miracle it's taken this long to actually reach this point.

She watches his expression, and his hazel eyes feel so distant even when he's looking right at her. There's hardly a trace of the anger of just minutes ago. A silence lingers, but instead of swelling the tension between them crumbles.

Midge twists the ring around her finger and tugs it off.

“Don't be a coward,” he tries to scold, but it sounds halfhearted.

“I'm not,” she responds.

“Yeah... I know.” He accepts the diamond when she hands it to him.

He finishes the water and sets the glass in her sink.

“I'll get the papers drawn up,” he says.

It's almost the shortest fight they've ever had, and it's likely the last.

She follows him down the hall. He pauses, glancing over the exposed corners of the paintings. This time his look isn't angry or aggrieved, just uncertain and curious.

Midge feels herself brace, but it doesn't hurt as much as she expects when his question inevitably comes.

“When?”

“Last week,” she says, and she can feel the blush on her cheeks, but she won't lie to him just to prevent the slight embarrassment of his knowing. “Give or take a few days.” She watches him process the information

“Opening night?”

She nods.

She watches him wince, watches the painful emotions pass quickly over him, watches his fingers turn the ring over in his hands. Watches the calm resettle as he breathes in.

“Fair enough,” he huffs, tucking the diamond into his suit pocket.

She follows him back down the stairs in a more comfortable silence than before, through the main house to the front door. There's another moment of hesitation and uncertainty before he leans down and kisses her cheek.

“Bye Miriam,” he says, managing a small smile.

“Goodbye Benjamin.” She smiles back and watches him retreat all the way to the corner before returning inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be honest, this fight almost didn't appear. But it felt wrong to leave out the closure of that relationship when I could see it so clearly in my mind, even though it's a very bi-polar fight (by which I mean swinging from incredibly heated and angry to incredibly quiet very quickly, not that either of them are mentally ill). Weird. Anyway. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. One more beaming chapter to go.  
> And, for those of you interested, there will be a Midge/Lenny follow up. :D


	12. An End

Howell doesn't really expect to see Miriam again. Their artistic transaction is complete; and, though the memory of opening night and what occurred under the so-called masterpiece lingers deliciously in his mind, he has no delusions of repeat performances. He's happy for the memories, but realistic to a fault.

What they've shared isn't meant to last, and they lead very different lives.

It comes as something of a surprise, then, when Howell wakes one afternoon to the sounds of scuffing and struggle and finds Miriam attempting to pull a package almost as large as she is tall through his door.

He rushes to help her steady the parcel and realizes it's her painting.

“What's this?” he can't help asking even though he knows.

“I think you should have this back.” 

“That bulldog manager of yours already sent the money,” he says, squinting at her as if he doesn't quite recognize her.

“The other one's paid for, too, but that didn't stop you from taking it back last time,” she replies, as if that explains it.

“I wouldn't.” He sounds as if he's defending himself.

“Only because you don't know where I live.” And there's the hint of an accusation, though she's smiling at him as she says it.

Howell founders, and it's so unlike him to be lost for words and unreadable in expression at the same time that Midge wonders if this was a mistake. But no, it isn't. It isn't, because even in his confusion his piercing eyes find the bare spot on her finger, and then meet hers again.

“It's done,” she attempts to answer the questions before he can ask them. And the bewilderment leaves his face as a sudden streak of fear shoots through him.

“You don't expect me to...-”

“God no! Are you insane?! No, don't answer that.”

He struggles a minute longer, gaping slightly before gathering himself and really appraising her again.

“Miriam, I -” he starts, steps toward her. Stops. He stares as though he's found a new puzzle, even though he's well acquainted – intimately acquainted – with her.

“It's fine, Howell,” she says, trying to break up the tension, the confusion for him. “It's been over a long time, we just needed to put the lid on it. It's nothing to do with...” She nods toward the Houdini door with a hint of a blush and a smirk.

“I have a flair for the dramatic,” she laughs at herself. “But I think this-” she lays a hand against the brown paper that covers the painting, stroking it with something of fondness “-should stay with you.”

She turns back to him, and he's still staring and his eyes are twinkling, but the expression is entirely new. He reaches for her hand, and he's never held it before.

“Come with me.” His words are low and seem to have difficulty getting out, and his eyes watch her half a second longer before he takes her through the secret door.

“There's a reason that took so long to finish,” he's saying as they pass through the narrow corridor. Miriam assumes he means her painting.

She squeezes his hand where it's wrapped around hers, like she knows what he's saying. “Not just because I was watching you,” he huffs in response, with a passing grin. “I didn't tell you, and I really ought to have, but...” He's all gleaming energy with an edge of anxiousness when he pushes open the inner doors.

The towering canvas of the first masterpiece stands in its place, re-draped in it's shroud. But now there are two other canvases against the long wall, not so large as the first, but still nearly as long as Midge is tall, draped in their own covers.

Howell drops her hand and crosses to the new paintings, pulls down one sheet and then another.

They aren't duplicates, not copies at all, but they're unmistakably related in color and subject to the painting that is at this very instant wrapped in paper in the front room.

Now it's Miriam's turn to stop short, confused and speechless. And her expression must be extraordinarily concerning, because Howell returns to her side and retakes her hand.

She doesn't really register him, not until he speaks her name and blocks her view with searching eyes.

“Miriam. I should have told you.”

It takes a long moment for her eyes to refocus on him, brows knit.

“You really are quite the scamp,” she says, pauses, then shifts her expression from consternation to a look expectant for the joke to land.

The grip around her fingers tightens as relief floods through Howell, and it looks like he might kiss her. He doesn't.

So she tips up and kisses him instead, smiling the whole time. “I was right,” she says as she pulls back. “It belongs with you. With them.”

Howell may know the slender delicacy of her ankles, the angles of her hips, the curve and flex of every muscle, but she never stops surprising him. Just like every man who's come before, he suspects, he's underestimated her. At least he recognizes it, appreciates the challenge to do better.

“I want visitation rights, though,” she adds, meeting his eyes, and he matches her smile, nodding, and steals his own kiss.

~``~

It starts with a note, and it ends with... Well, nothing.

Because it doesn’t really end.  
  
Miriam returns to the studio, to the paint stained walls and irregular heat, the quiet and stillness, again and again. As hectic and full as her life and career continue to be, with ever-increasing demands on her time, she makes time for escapes.  
  
When Howell grows used to her presence, her flickering appearance in the set dressing of his world – when he accepts that she doesn’t see him as a means to a passed end, and stops attempting to estimate her at all – he gives her a key. She comes and goes as she pleases, leaving his door however she found it.  
  
Sometimes she watches Howell work. Sometimes she sits for him. Sometimes she naps in the sagging yet comfortable chair. Sometimes she wanders about dusting things and stacking old newspapers while he sleeps off an over-enthusiastic night with a bottle.

Sometimes she hides behind the Houdini door when an aspiring collector makes the mistake of tracking Howell down, shaking with silent laughter.  
  
There are weighted looks and innuendos and meaningful touches and flirtations. There are jokes and laughter, and occasional arguments over literature, theater, art... And very occasionally, there are riotous bursts of actualized lust.  
  
They don’t talk about what it is between them, but there’s an understanding that neither is in any way obligated to the other. An open intimacy. They lead their lives as they will and as they wish, and sometimes their paths coincide...  
  
Sometimes there are long gaps when Miriam tours, and she returns to find the notes of other women’s perfume mingling with the turpentine. Sometimes there are periods of infatuation with other men, and she stops making time for a while.  
  
Sometimes Howell manages to convince himself that everything he has is gone again, that he will never create anything anymore perfect than what has already emerged from his mind and his hands; and she comes and goes without interacting with him at all. The moodiness is heavy and uncomfortable, but it makes the lightness, the weightlessness, even more beautiful when it returns.

The number of paintings set apart in the hidden room slowly climbs, and Miriam is sad that the world can't share in their beauty, and is glad they at least have an audience of two, not of one.  
  
Regardless of time or relationships or fickle temperaments, the sensational draw of broken color and watchful eyes tracing her skin always returns, over and over.

And if it does end, it will end in light and color...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An immense thank you and my sincerest gratitude to everyone who read this far. I appreciate it so much. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as my brain enjoyed conjuring it for me. 
> 
> Also, I have started a Pinterest account that has a board for this fic, if that's a thing you're interested in. I don't know how to social media very well, though, JSYK. The username there is the same as here. 
> 
> [ It doesn't really end... ;) ]

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly pre-written, which is a GD miracle. I intend to release chapters on a twice-weekly schedule, most likely Tuesdays and Thursdays. Some chapters will be pretty short, like the first one. Some will be comprised of two or more shorter sections. Some will be long. Some will be funny (if I may presume). Some will be moody. Some might even get a little bit sexy. I will update tags as necessary, and/or as recommended.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please stay tuned.


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